


everything is beautiful

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-07 21:04:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21464527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: Izzy and Clary are just friends with benefits. Kind of. Sort of. Possibly.You know what? It's complicated.
Relationships: Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood
Comments: 30
Kudos: 165





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading xx

“When do you know you’re ready for sex?”

For as long as she’s been able to process what she’s seeing, Alec’s always been a bundle of nervous gay energy. He used to spend that energy hiding who he was, which made her unfathomably sad. Then he set his narrow and laser-like focus on exhausting himself trying to be perfect, then on how to make Magnus his boyfriend.

Izzy never had such hangups.

“Is anyone ever ready?” Izzy asks, taking a savage bite of her hashbrowns and wiping her hands. They leave wide grease stains on the paper plate, which makes them just about perfect. She’s been having sex for longer than is probably advisable and the less complicated she’s trying to make it, the more tangled up it seems to get. In this rare instance, she’s got no advice to give Alec; she can barely figure her own shit out.

“That is--discouraging,” Alec says with a sigh. He mutinously picks at his ham and egg omelet. He’s not really a breakfast person, but once, he was told that breakfast was the most important meal of the day and he’s been forcing himself to choke down eggs ever since. At least now he’ll add cheese and shit. For all that Alec is terrified of fucking things up with Magnus, Izzy’s seen a change in Alec that she likes. He thinks about himself sometimes, he looks around beyond his studies, their parent’s expectations. He does stuff_ just because he enjoys it_. 

Alec leans across the table, casting furtive glances around and Izzy swallows down a smile along with her piping hot coffee. “He’s got a lot of--”

“--dick?” Izzy hazards a guess and Alec chokes on his omelet. Izzy reaches out and slaps his back until Alec can pull in wheezing breaths. 

“No. _God._ He has a lot of experience.” He makes a vague motion with his hands, then hunches his shoulders miserably. 

Izzy sighs. “Alec, he _likes you_. Graph-loving, spreadsheet-using _you_. He didn’t like, get you confused with a gigolo overnight. I think he knows you don’t have much experience.”

“What if I-- you know, don’t know what to do?”

“You do what feels good,” Izzy says and then pauses, “and nothing else. Just do what you’re comfortable with. If he really cares about you, he won’t expect anything else.”

“Yeah," Alec says, relaxing in his seat. He adds a splash of cream to his coffee and Izzy watches it bloom across the surface like clouds in an inky black sky. “Maybe he’s not even interested.” Izzy can practically see the gears grinding in his head, all coming to some horrible and probably untrue conclusion. “He’s not even made any kind of moves. Maybe he’s not even attracted to me. Maybe he’s a _ eunuch_.”

“Or maybe,” Izzy says slowly, “he’s trying to go slow and waiting for you.” She doesn’t doubt Magnus is attracted to Alec. She’s been tempted to tell them to get a room for the sheer amount of eye-fucking they do.

“Oh,” Alec says. “Huh. That makes more sense than him being a eunuch.”

“Men are dumb,” Izzy says with a sigh.

“I don’t disagree with your assessment,” Alec agrees, sounding sad.

Izzy finishes her hashbrown, crumpling the greasy napkin in her hand. _Where is my Magnus?_ she thinks.

They finish their food in companionable silence, and she tells Alec goodbye before heading back to her room.

Before she had left, she'd ducked down and whispered in this ear, "Don't overthink it." If only she could take her own advice. Izzy doesn’t know why she always has to fix the damaged men in his life, but she’s never been able to stand seeing either of her brothers in pain, and they seem to be filled with man-pain to the brim.

The only thing she has of her very own is an overly complicated mess with her roommate. Too much cupcake vodka and loneliness one stormy evening – and _bam _ – now they’re currently navigating a no strings, no feelings relationship. It is purely physical and it’s _great_.

Of course, she probably could have picked someone better than her roommate, a girl that literally sleeps less than ten feet away from her. When it all goes shit – and it always does – they have literally nowhere else to go.

She supposes she could have stayed with Alec and watched him fret about a guy who’s totally in love with him. There’s always that unappealing option.

Izzy sighs and hitches her book bag over her shoulder. She shoves into her room, her side a total mess, the other side neat and tidy, covered with charcoal sketches. She carelessly tosses her backpack onto her bed and kicks a pair of jeans out of her way. Before she can even turn around, pale arms snake around her waist and sticky, glossy lips nuzzle at her neck. “Class let out early,” Clary says. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She feels the press of breasts against her back, the tickle of Clary’s hair against her neck. She always smells like fresh peaches and turpentine, the dust from the canvas from the studio where she works. Izzy lets herself slump back into Clary’s arms. “Grabbed coffee with Alec this morning. Thought you would sleep in after staying at the studio late last night.”

“Mm. Early class. What the hell was I thinking when I set my schedule up?”

“That you’re an over-achiever. Don’t lie, you love being up early,” Izzy teases. Clary has said before that she gets the most done early in the morning, says it feels like her brain’s firing on all cylinders. Izzy honestly wouldn’t know – she makes it a rule never to be up before 10 am – but sometimes she misses Clary's warmth in the early hours of the morning when Clary slips out of her bed to shower and get dressed. And Izzy thinks too much already.

“Yeah, I guess,” Clary confirms, “but I had another reason. Wanted to—“ she trails off, fingers skimming Izzy’s body with purpose. They’ve done this enough times that Izzy can read her like a book. A horny, horny book. Shockingly, it still excites Izzy, still makes her pulse race and her skin buzz. 

But like, sure, they’re just fucking real casually.

Clary presses a quick peck to Izzy’s cheek and steps back. 

Izzy turns to face her just in time to see Clary crossing her arms and hooking her thumbs beneath the hem of her green spaghetti-strap tank top and yank it up over her head, her hair a glorious coppery waterfall as it drifts back down to her shoulders. 

Izzy never gets tired of this part, the slow reveal of her porcelain skin lightly dusted with freckles that trail down from her chest to her belly. 

“Well, hello there,” Izzy says, pressing her finger to her favorite small cluster of freckles that dusts Clary’s left hip.

“Such a nerd,” Clary says affectionately, stepping close and raking her fingers through Izzy’s dark hair. Izzy goes with it, letting her head go where Clary’s strong artist hands guide her. “Missed you,” Clary says and leans forward to kiss her, her lips glossy and sticky-soft.

Clary’s not wearing a bra. It must be nice to be able to go around bra-less, Izzy thinks, but she’s grateful for it right this minute. Her tiny breasts are perky, topped by pale pink nipples, and Izzy ducks down and sucks one of the peaks into her mouth, feeling it pucker beneath her tongue. Clary lets her head fall back, pushing herself closer to Izzy, and Izzy reaches up with her other hand to cup Clary's breast, the soft warmth of her skin.

Izzy slowly backs Clary towards her bed, kissing and sucking until Clary falls back, legs akimbo.

“Pants off,” Izzy gasps, pulling her own sweater up and kicking off her jeans. She’s still wearing her hot pink kneesocks, a jokey gift that Clary bought her for her birthday, but she can’t be fucked to peel them off. 

“Yes, ma'am,” Clary replies and lifts her hips, sliding her faded cotton sleeps pants down. She’s not wearing panties either, and Izzy feels the world tilt a little. _Goddamn hippie art students_, Izzy thinks, feeling faint. _ Goddamn Clary. _

“Come on, come on,” Izzy mindlessly chants, kneeling between her knees and pushing them open, where there’s a small, neat thatch of hair, a darker red than what’s on her head.

“_Fuck_,” Clary groans and reaches down, running a fingertip up her slit and lightly massaging her clit. Her pussy is glistening, proof that just Izzy watching her touch herself excites her. Izzy’s in a similar state, anticipating the taste of Clary against her tongue. Izzy leans down and licks straight up her pussy, dipping her tongue into the wet pink crease. She tastes musky-sweet, slick and slippery. Izzy does it again, fascinated by the way the folds flush and darken as she unconsciously fucks herself down onto Izzy’s tongue.

Izzy pushes her tongue up against Clary’s clit, bringing her finger up to dip inside of her. She pushes into her warmth, feels Clary tighten and clench around her finger, a gorgeous pink flush starting on her chest and moving onto her breasts. Izzy adds another finger and moves them in and out, her tongue alternating between tracing the shape of Clary’s slick pink cunt and lapping a steady rhythm against her clit. She keeps going until her lips go numb and her knees ache where they’re resting against the cold concrete floor. At some point, Clary slings one leg over Izzy’s shoulder as Izzy fucks her tongue in and out of her body, hand flat against the sweaty crease between Clary’s hip and thigh.

Izzy moves her hand up to cup Clary’s breast and pinches her nipple, rolling the rosy flesh between her fingers. 

“I’m so close,” Clary gasps, and Izzy lets go, reaches down to almost perfunctorily massage her own clit. She’s nearly shocked by the warmth dripping down her thighs. She can’t ever remember being turned on by eating out a girl, even one as objectively hot as Clary.

Clary goes still in that particular way she does when she’s scraping so close to an orgasm that her body goes still; belly tight, her back arched, and toes curled. Izzy knows just what to do – she keeps a steady rhythmic pressure on her clit, uses her fingers to fuck her slow and deep, enjoying the hot clench of her. Finally, Clary shudders, breath ragged and pussy throbbing against Izzy’s slick fingers. Izzy fucks her through her orgasm, easing up with her tongue until Clary goes boneless, the sheen of sweat cooling low on her chest and soft belly. Then Izzy pulls her fingers out and leans back, wiping her chin with the back of her hand as she licks the slickness off her lips, tasting the last remnants of Clary against her tongue.

“I’m going to return the favor,” Clary promises breathlessly after a few seconds, chest heaving, “as soon as I remember how to breathe again.”

Izzy laughs and stands, easing the cramps out of her burning legs. “If you want to lay back, I can do all the work. I’m close anyway.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Clary says. She scoots up the bed and props her head on the pillow. 

Izzy crawls over to her, Clary's eyes tracking her movements carefully before Izzy realizes she still has her stupid pink socks on. She goes to remove them when Clary grabs her wrist. “Leave ‘em on.”

“Perv,” Izzy huffs. 

“Whatever,” Clary says. “It’s hot. As are--” She reaches out and rubs her palms lightly over Izzy’s tits. Izzy sucks in a sharp breath as Clary runs her fingers over the peaked tips. “--these. God, you have great boobs. Just the best. I want to draw these boobs, write poems to them, sculpt them and cast them in bronze and share them with the world.”

“Do you think your professors would let you?” Izzy asks, eyebrow arched, amused. Post-orgasm Clary is the best Clary. She wouldn’t necessarily object to being a subject for Clary's art, and she knows the art program is notoriously avant-garde here, but even she thinks her discombobulated titties cast in bronze may raise a few eyebrows.

“Babe, I think they’d pay _me _to,” Clary answers. “Those tits are works of art.”

“Guess you’d know,” Izzy agrees. She spreads her legs, crawling up Clary's body until she gets to the headboard and curls her fingers over the cheap pressed wood. She lowers her cunt down to Clary's mouth, feeling Clary taste her. Christ, she must be _dripping _by now. Clary's tongue dips inside her and Izzy grinds down, getting Clary as deep into her cunt as she can get it.

Clary breathes through her nose as she lays back and lets Izzy screw herself down. Izzy takes one hand and reaches down to her clit, touching herself. She wasn’t lying when she said she was close. She can already feel the tightness low in her belly, the tingling in her nipples. Her thighs are already burning, her other hand holding a sweaty, white-knuckled grip on the headboard. She massages her clit, teeth scraping against her bottom lip as her cunt slides over Clary's mouth, down to her chin_. _

_ This is Clary_, it hits her suddenly.

_Clary’s_ mouth on her cunt, _Clary’s_ body beneath hers. Her fingers tighten on the headboard and she moans helplessly. She feels that warm simmer of pleasure spark bright like a flare at midnight, suddenly and startlingly blazing to life. It crystallizes into electric points, then explodes out like a tidal wave sweeping her under. The headboard creaks and she throws her head back in a silent open-mouthed groan, thighs tight and shaking. Her eyes are closed and she’s swaying in place, tossed about by the currents until she realizes that Clary has her arms around her and she’s slowly lowering her shaking body to the bed.

The last thought Izzy has before drifting off to sleep is that Clary might be her anchor in this silly little metaphor but damned if Izzy still doesn’t know what she is to Clary.


	2. Chapter 2

The alarm buzzing on her phone annoys her enough to reach out beneath the warm cocoon of blankets in search of the bastard thing. As soon as she turns her alarm off, Izzy nestles back in and that’s when she realizes that Clary’s holding her tightly, her soft breath ghosting over the back of Izzy’s neck. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep here, always makes a point to cross that significant space between their beds back to collapse back on her own disjointed side, no matter how much she might want to secretly stay.

Growing up, they had a pet cat that always acted as if everything was okay until one day, the cat dropped dead during the middle of dinner. It was only then that they discovered the cat was riddled with cancer, had probably been suffering for months in silence. Her mom said at least the cat was strong and died in a dignified manner. Personally, Izzy never saw anything particularly dignified in being buried in a trash bag in the backyard, but the thought seemed to comfort Alec, so Izzy bit her tongue. That bastard cat only ever liked Alec, anyway. Let him believe what he wanted to. But that was an interesting lesson for her. It meant that Izzy learned that suffering was strong and dignified, but she never did learn how to ask for help.

Lying in the warm circle of Clary's arms, something uneasy uncoils in the bottom of her gut. This falling asleep together in each other’s arms is how the waters get addled, and her life is already muddy enough. Izzy slips from the bed and finds her clothes strewn out on the floor and pulls them on in the dark. She grabs her shower caddy and heads to the bathroom. 

The communal bathroom is one of the worst things about university life, other than the pants-shitting terror of suddenly finding yourself an adult without any practical knowledge of how to be one. Still, the bathrooms run a close second. Izzy heads to the row of private stalls against the far left, setting her caddy in one of the showers and turning on the overhead water, letting it warm up. At this time in the morning, most everyone is already in class. It’s blissfully empty, just her and her obnoxious thoughts as she strips her clothes off. She wraps a towel around her body and finger-combs her hair, trying not to imagine being back in the warmth of the blankets with Clary. 

_ Stop that,_ she tells herself firmly and heads towards the stall, leaving the towel on the hook just outside.

The warm water is heaven against her jagged nerves. She rinses her hair out, then soaps her body up and washes off, letting the conditioner set in her hair. Finally, she’s out of things to do and can’t make any more excuses to stay in the shower. She shuts the water off and reaches an arm out for the towel. The air outside the shower feels unpleasantly chilly in comparison, and Izzy holds her breath in anticipation of leaving the cocoon of warmth she’s made for herself in here.

She pushes back the shower curtain, feet squeaking in her cheap flip flops as she wraps her towel around her body.

She just about jumps out of her skin when she sees Clary standing at the mirror in front of the row of sinks opposite. She thought she’d been alone. "Jesus, you scared the_ shit_ out of me."

“You woke me up when you left,” Clary says, not turning around. Her hands are wrapped around the porcelain edges of the sink as she leans close to the mirror, studying something on her face.

Izzy grabs another towel and dries her hair. “Just wanted to get an early start to the day,” she lies, avoiding looking at Clary. Something inside her trembles when she thinks of the enormous stupidity of this thing they’re doing. It could, she believes, get unbearably messy, and then what would she do? Who would she talk to about it? Ironically, she loves Clary too much to lose her.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Clary says, rubbing at her eye.

“What are you doing?” Izzy asks, stepping closer. 

“Got an eyelash suck,” Clary complains, rubbing at her eye.

“Well, don’t scratch at it,” Izzy admonishes, batting Clary’s hand away. She pushes right up into Clary’s space, can smell the scent of her: paint, and something fruity – peaches, maybe. The sugary-smelling lipgloss she uses in the mornings. Izzy scans Clary’s clear green eyes before she sees the dark eyelash sticking up from the corner. Such a small thing to cause so much pain. Very carefully, Izzy grasps it in-between her fingers and pulls it out. She holds it up in front of Clary, whose pupils are dilating, breath coming faster. Belatedly, Izzy remembers that they have the bathroom to themselves and she’s wearing nothing but a towel. She holds up the eyelash nervously. “I think you can make a wish.”

“I thought that was dandelions,” Clary says, tilting her head.

“C’mon,” Izzy says, rolling her eyes, “isn’t there anything you’d wish for?”

Clary shrugs easily. “Not really. I have most of the things I need, and the things I want --” she reaches out to touch Izzy’s hair, winding a lock of the dark strands around her index finger. The nail polish there is chipped, Izzy notices, a shimmery deep green that matches Clary’s wistful eyes.

“What about the things you want?” Izzy asks, already dreading the answer. The showerhead is dripping behind her, a plonk-plonk-plonk that matches her heartbeat.

Clary’s mouth twists. “I can wait.”

She’s so close. It would be so easy to lean close and kiss her. But at the last minute, Izzy pulls away and drops her hand. She doesn’t know where the eyelash has gone to. “I need to get started on an essay due soon.” It’s not due until the end of the semester and Clary probably knows it, but she doesn’t call Izzy on it. 

“Yeah, okay,” Clary says. “You going to the library or are you going to be around later?”

“Library,” Izzy answers, swooping down to pick up her shower caddy and follow Clary back to their room.

Once in their room, their differences become even more apparent. Izzy kicks a pair of high heels out of the way. They’re cheap and desperately uncomfortable but they look so good that she can’t bring herself to toss them. If her side of the room is a window into her state of mind, then her mind is a fucking mess. Panties and lipstick and quickly discarded outfits strewn across the floor.

Clary's, of course, is artistically mussed, everything in the correct-ish place. Either way, it looks somehow more sure of itself than Izzy's side, not the strange mismatch of clothes and makeup, as if Izzy sheds her outfits like a second skin.

She picks up her Chem book and heads to the library to study

There’s no better way to deal with a problem by avoiding it. Sure, that method's worked out great for her family so far. Alec got less gay and her dad stopped cheating on her mother. Oh, _wait_. But learned behavior is tough to unlearn.

As the door swings shut behind her, she hears Clary call out from the bathroom: “Hey, Iz? Even I can’t wait forever.” 

\---

Chewing on Clary’s words gives her a lot to think about. So much so that she spends the next day in a type of fugue state. If someone had asked her what she’d studied or eaten, Izzy couldn’t recall, or even promise that she’d done either at all. No one _asked _Clary to wait. In fact, that’s the exact opposite of what Izzy wants. They’re casual fuckbuddies, and it’s totally awesome and totally grownup. 

Friday night finds her standing in front of the mirror, carefully considering whether she should wear her hair up or down when Clary comes in, wrapped in a towel. “You look nice,” she says noncommittally when she catches sight of Izzy. She pops her lips. “Going out?”

Izzy can't lie to herself that she’s imagining the strained note in Clary's voice. It makes Izzy's stomach clench, even though she’s not entirely sure why. She has a date tonight, something she’d said yes to ages ago and would feel bad about canceling at the last minute. Still, Izzy tries to tell herself, pushing down her creeping anxiety, it's no big deal. It’s not like she and Clary are exclusive or anything. But for some reason, her palms are sweating and she drops her hair tie into the porcelain sink. 

Izzy stares down dumbly at it, wondering why she feels so wretched.

She knows why, but sometimes you do things even while knowing that you’re making a mistake. For the thrill of being young and stupid, for the thrill of being human and fallible.

“A date?” Clary’s eyebrows do their valiant best to climb up into her hairline.

“Yeah,” Izzy sighs, still staring at the hair tie. Having a lot of dates lined up used to make her feel validated, wanted. But now, she just feels incredibly alone. Funny how that works.

Clary’s mouth is a tight, bloodless line. “I see,” she says, taking a step back. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it,” she says before leaving.

Izzy _almost _calls out to her, but she doesn’t. She turns back to the mirror, staring at her reflection. This is exactly what she wanted, she tells herself. It still doesn’t explain the profound feeling of loss settling deep into her bones.

In the end, Izzy decides on hair up. It doesn’t really matter and never did, though.

\---

The date was a disaster, but Izzy hadn’t exactly expected any different. To be fair, it was mostly her fault. Nothing was quite good enough, and Izzy couldn’t stop herself from helplessly thinking, _Clary _would have laughed at that lame joke, or _Clary_ wouldn't chew with her mouth open.

To make herself feel better, she agrees to go to a party held off-campus by one of those tragic graduates that still parties with college kids. Still, free booze and loud music promises to be a good time.

It’s not her fault that her mood has soured to the point that she can’t even stand to be around herself. Well, yeah, it is totally all her fault but admitting it doesn’t always make the problem magically go away.

“What the _hell’s _gotten into you tonight?” Alec snaps. He’s the designated driver for the party, the product of the elegant decision-making process of drawing straws. In the front seats, Magnus and Alec keep stealing glances at eat other, and Izzy has the distinct impression that if she weren’t a silent audience, they would be holding hands right now, perfect 10 and 2 positions for hands on a steering wheel be damned. It’s a little hard not to feel like the third wheel on his date with Magnus, and she feels her already crappy mood practically plummet below the equator. Her good mood and peace of mind are probably fucking off on some tropical island together, busy _not_ having relationship problems. Izzy slumps down lower in her seat, knowing she’s being really childish.

I’m failing, she wants to say. I think I’m drowning and I don’t know how to ask for help. 

Instead, she bites her lips and looks out the window.

\---

Izzy does a lap, says hi to some people she knows and gets handed a red solo cup of lukewarm beer. Unthinkingly, she tosses it back and then heads to the table in the corner of the room for another. “Don’t you think you should take it easy?” Alec asks, grabbing her arm.

“Don’t you think you should mind your own business?” Izzy snaps. It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask if he’s her mother, but at the last minute, she shuts her mouth so quickly that she hears her teeth snap together. It’s a pain she feels deep in her jaw. 

Growing up, her mother always lectured her on what ladies _should _do. Ladies weren’t messy in public. Ladies didn’t curse. Ladies didn’t cry. Ladies sucked it up and learned to eat away at the pain of other people, regardless of their own. “Women have a curious strength, Isabelle,” her mother had said. “Men don’t and can’t understand it. It allows us to create life. And then we sustain it by keeping our families together.” Her father was cheating on her mother even then; he wasn’t even discreet about it.

If accepting pain as your due was what being a woman was about, then Izzy decided right then and there that she wanted nothing to do with it.

Alec’s jaw is tight and a lock of hair is falling down over his forehead. She used to run her hands through it and brush it back for him, but he has Magnus to do that for him now. He doesn’t need her anymore.

Then it hits her. “I’m alone,” she says through numb lips. The song coming on has a deep bass; it vibrates through the floor and sends a chill racing up her spine. It was something she’d intellectually known long before this moment, but she'd never felt it so profoundly before.

“No, you aren’t,” Alec says, searching her face. 

“Like you would know,” Izzy spits. He’s always been the golden child. Jace’s best friend, their parent’s favorite. And now, even though she wants him to be happy, he has Magnus_._

Alec’s face hardens. “No one is forcing you to be alone, Iz. You push everyone away, tell them you don’t need them, then you get pissed when they leave. This is something you’re doing to yourself.”

She tells herself that she's alone because she wants to be, because she’s wild and free.

But there is a part of her, some ugly doubting part that thinks that maybe she’s alone because she doesn't know how to be any different. It hurts, that knowledge, that once learned, cannot be unlearned. She’s not free; she’s the most fucked up, trapped person she knows, as repressed as Alec ever was at his worst. And that hurt makes her mean because that’s the nature of hurt, of loneliness – it spreads and infects like cancer, like an infection, ruining what was once healthy. “Fuck_ off,_” Izzy says, hating herself even as the words are leaving her mouth, “don’t you _dare _judge me about being alone, not after--"

She bites down on her tongue hard enough to taste blood. She’d been about to bring up Alec’s fake girlfriend in high school, the eponymous and always conspicuously busy Jessica Hawkeblue. She can’t believe herself. She knows how much Alec hurt in high school, how painful it was for him, and how making up someone to love you is born from an aching loneliness that she can only understand all too well. She was about to throw it in Alec’s face because he told her something true and unflattering about herself.

_You're not this person_, Izzy tells herself. Her mouth tastes like copper and the waxy red lipstick she bought last week. Jesus, shes such a _ fuck up._ “Alec—I’m sorry.”

“Say it,” Alec says, his eyes an angry dare. Somewhere in the crowd, Magnus is waiting for him while he’s here trying to help his messy baby sister.

She can’t stay here and watch someone else be hurt by her, she just can’t. She turns on her heel and runs off, looking for alcohol. On a side table, she grabs some shitty cans and slams one before taking her time with the next. The music is good, the living room packed with sweaty bodies. Izzy shoves into the mass, losing herself in the beat. She drinks and dances indiscriminately, grinding up against women, men, enjoying the feeling of eyes tracking her, people wanting her. It’s a heady feeling, being desired in this way and if it’s not quite the way she wants, then it’s close enough that she can pretend otherwise.

Finally, sweat pooling in the small of her back, she leaves the crush of bodies, stomach rumbling. Usually, parties like this at least have food, chips or basic sandwiches. Her skin feels too tight, all the beer barely blunting the raw, nervous energy buzzing just under her skin. These are old houses dotting college row, mostly un-updated seventies décor. Izzy’s sharp nails scrape across the wood paneling as she makes her way down the short hall towards the kitchen.

Being irrevocably tied to someone is something she both craves and fears, and she doesn’t know how to reconcile the two. She’s not looking to get married or have kids, but falling in love, making space in your heart, that seals people together in some kind of way, too. Izzy gets to the kitchen in search of more tepid beer and sad poor college student type finger food. Drinking more is probably the last thing she should be doing, but she needs the release, the numbness the alcohol provides. It’s a dangerous game she’s playing and she only too aware that she’s losing.

As she turns the corner, she hears the low murmur of voices, and then a woman laugh. It’s a warm, throaty sound and it takes her far too long to recognize the couple. 

It’s Clary, standing in the kitchen, laughing and talking to a woman with a curly riot of hair and a cool leather jacket. As Izzy watches, Clary steps closer and looks up into the mystery woman's eyes. They make a striking couple, Clary’s hair a red flame next to the other woman’s jet black curls

God, they’re standing so close, and there’s something incredibly intimate about the position of Clary's body, curved like a question mark that the other woman would clearly like to answer.

Bile rises in the back of Izzy’s throat and the scene blurs, halos around the pendant light hanging above the countertop island and for one crazy moment, Clary looks like an angel. Guess that makes her the devil, then. She squeezes her eyes shut and realizes her cheeks are wet. Izzy swipes at the trails of moisture, furious at herself.

For a second, one crystal-clear moment in time, Izzy absolutely understands what’s happening: She wants Clary. She's_ in love with_ Clary.

It’s what she’s always feared -- taken great pains to avoid, even -- but it’s somehow worse because it’s undeniably her fault. She’s broken her own heart by being dishonest about what she wants, what she _needs_. And if Clary’s moved on and met someone else, then Izzy has no one else to blame. She and Clary are exactly what Izzy has insisted she’s always wanted: They’re friends who occasionally fuck when they get lonely, nothing more.

The world tilts unpleasantly, and Izzy takes another stumbling step backward. Her shoulder hits the doorjamb and she thinks Clary calls her name, but Izzy’s already pushing through the crowd and breaking through a side door until the cool night air hits her face. Izzy stares up at the stars and takes a couple of ragged breaths, trying to clear her head but it doesn’t work. Before she knows it, she’s hunched over and retching in the front lawn. Any other time, she’d be humiliated, but right now, she’s too miserable, too twisted up inside to care. All she thought she ever wanted was to be free.

“Izzy!” a voice yells behind her and she feels Alec’s big hands on her shoulders, smoothing her hair back from her face while she throws up her dinner, the frothy beer poured by some asshole that doesn’t know how to tap a keg.

Her stomach aches from heaving, and her face feels feverishly hot. 

“Why did you drink so much?” Alec asks.

“I don’t know,” Izzy moans, still hunched over. Alec’s arms steal around her waist as he holds her up. She feels her knees grow weak and she sags forward in his arms, letting him hold her up. It feels good to let him do that for her, to know that even if he’s blissfully shacked up with his new boyfriend that he’s still going to be here for her, even if he doesn’t need her quite as much as before. Up until this moment, she hadn’t been sure. 

Alec scrapes her sweat-damp hair back from her face. His voice against her ear is low and pained. “Iz, hey, hey, you’re hurting yourself.”

The ground is nearly frozen solid and she didn’t think to grab her jacket. Somewhere, she lost a shoe. So, Izzy stands in the cold on one stockinged foot, throat tight and eyes burning. “I know,” Izzy gasps, “but I don’t know how to stop.”


	3. Chapter 3

\---

Magnus and Alec hustle her into the car after Magnus finds them in the front yard and hastily wraps his coat around her shoulders.

Inside the car, the streetlights flash through the windows as she watches the dark shapes speed past, bushes and trees like hunched over monsters. Nothing happened other than Izzy completely embarrassing herself and coming face to face with her own bullshit, but she feels gutted, hollow.

Alec’s driving, hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. Magnus in the passenger seat, looking away, politely quiet. She likes Magnus. He’s a good foil for Alec, who is generally too brash and honest to be polite, at least with people he cares deeply about. Maybe one day, Alec will break through that careful perimeter Magnus has set up around his heart. 

Maybe someone will do that for Izzy, too.

Izzy can tell that Alec’s watching her through the rearview mirror. He’s studying her with the calculating, bones-stripping intensity of their mother, who Alec is far more alike than he’d ever care to admit. She sees it more as they've grown older; she wonders if she’s going to be emotionally detached like their father, who loves his family but always has his eye on the horizon for something bigger, something better. God, she hopes not. She hopes she doesn’t make other people feel the way he made her feel while growing up.

“What are you doing?” Alec asks her, his voice carrying over the low whoosh of the heater. If she cranes her head, she can see his eyes in the rearview mirror. His hazel eyes look wide, troubled. Out of all of the kids, he’s the kindest. He doesn’t think so, and he thinks his forgiving nature isn’t spectacular because he doesn’t yet know how deeply everyone else in the world sucks.

Izzy sinks down into the seat, unable to meet his eyes. “I have no clue,” she says honestly. Her mouth tastes like shit. She wipes her cheeks again and her hand comes away damp, smeared with black mascara and eyeliner. She must look _ cute _.

There is some intrinsic part of her that’s damaged, always restless – perpetually dissatisfied with life, no matter how objectively good she has it. She keeps thinking it’ll get better with age; instead, she can’t help the uncomfortable feeling that she’s getting smarter but no wiser, spiraling further out of control, beneath the crashing waves of adulthood without a clue as to which way is up.

Outside the car window, the night passes in an endless blur.

\---

Alec walks her back to her dorm room while Magnus waits outside. As she passed by him, he’d grabbed her hand, leaned close, and said, “This feeling will pass. It always does.”

“How do you know?” Izzy asked a little desperately.

“I’ve been there,” Magnus said, looking rueful. “Everyone has, I think.”

Izzy slipped his coat off and handing it back to him. “What happened?”

“I met your brother,” he said simply, dark eyes peaceful and kind. Izzy was a thousand percent sure that Alec was giving Magnus a disgustingly sappy look behind her back, but she didn't check. This moment was for them. 

Alec walks her all the way to her door and won’t leave until she assures him at least sixteen times that she will be fine and no, she won’t choke to death on her vomit, and _ugh_, Alec, just go and be gross with your boyfriend.

She opens the door slowly and feels a little sucker-punched when she notices the bed across the tiny room is empty, a sketchpad open near the foot of the bed where Clary left it earlier. She probably went home with the beautiful woman from the party and – that’s fine.

Finally, Izzy crawls into bed, exhausted. 

Izzy knows that everything’s spiraling to a point, coming to a head, and she’s avoided it for as long as she possibly can. Attempting to outrun your problems is exhausting, and ultimately, she suspects, futile. Because whenever you stop running, there they are, waiting. Besides, she sure she wasn’t born a total fucking coward. It’s life and all its hurts and disappointments that have made her this way.

It’s time to stop.

“Are you a woman or a girl?” her mother once asked her when Izzy confessed to being nervous about leaving home for college. She hadn’t known at the time, she’d felt like a child pretending to be a grownup and a woman clinging to the fading remnants of childhood.

But now she does and the answer is both. She can be both. Izzy doesn't have to reconcile those two clashing parts: they’re co-existing within herself and they always have been. It’s everyone else that made her think she had to choose. She can be confused about the world and decisive, intimate and free, both constantly searching and set on a path.

_“Are you a woman or a girl?” _

“I’m both,” Izzy tells the empty room. “I’ve always been both.”

\---

Golden sunlight pierces her consciousness, interrupting some blurry, tangled dream about finals and Calculus. Her eyes feel crusty and glued together, a low throb pulsing in her temples. Izzy groans, rubs at her face and sits up, combing her fingers through her long hair, fingers tangling on tiny knots.

Uh oh, here comes the crushing embarrassment about her behavior last night. In the harsh light of morning and even harsher sobriety, all her problems seem so insignificant. 

Clary clears her throat, stopping Izzy’s trainwreck thoughts in their tracks. Clary is sitting on the edge of her bed, facing her, pale hands curled around a steaming mug of tea. Probably that bitter shit she drinks for detoxing. Izzy’s not a fan of bitterness; she always adds sugar, even if she knows it’s no good for her. Clary’s hair is a little frizzy from sleep, brushed back into a messy ponytail; there are dark purple smudges beneath her eyes. Still, to Izzy, she looks great, possibly the most lovely thing Izzy’s ever seen.

“What the hell happened last night?” Clary asks quietly when she notices Izzy watching.

“Nothing,” Izzy lies, hands flopping down above her head. Her hair is spilling over the side of her sheets.

“I saw you coming into the kitchen. Then you turned and ran out like a total weirdo.”

That’s a fair assessment of her behavior, Izzy has to give that to Clary. She takes a deep breath. “I saw you talking to some girl.”

Clary blinks and Izzy watches her stitch the pieces together. The corners of her mouth turn down. “Tall? Leather jacket?"

“Hot,” Izzy says, unable to keep the sliver of resentment out of her voice. 

“That’s my Art History partner. We were talking about a presentation due at the end of the semester.”

“You were _laughing_,” Izzy says, totally unable to stop herself. 

“She was telling me funny stories about her boyfriend,” Clary says, voice extremely and worryingly flat.

That seems about right. That seems on par with how her life has been going these last few months.

“I’m an idiot,” Izzy mutters, flopping back on the bed. Her mouth feels like ass, her eyes dry and scratchy. She supposes she used up all her melodramatic tears last night. Crying makes her feel like a helpless little girl and yet, it feels undeniably good afterward. She feels clarified and somehow cleaner, despite the fact that she smells like vomit and old sweat.

“No argument from me there,” Clary says, setting her tea on the nightstand and crossing the room. She sits on the edge of Izzy’s bed and reaches out, fingers brushing Izzy’s hair back from sticky skin.

Izzy’s not pretty right now, but that’s okay. Clary’s seen her worse, and she still keeps coming back. Izzy sniffles wetly. “I look gross.”

“Never,” Clary replies, tucking a long strand behind her ear. “You just look a little tired.”

“I am,” Izzy says, voice cracking. “I’m so, so tired.”

“Scoot over,” Clary says decisively, lying down in front of her. Izzy’s arms reflexively come up to wrap around her narrow waist. She breathes in the smell of Clary’s hair. Peaches and paint and dust. After a moment, she asks, “Were you really jealous?”

Izzy closes her eyes, remembering the feeling of seeing Clary leaning into that other woman, the hot flash of jealousy, the slow-dawning terror of realizing she’d lost something she could barely admit to herself that she desperately wanted. “Yeah. I thought you had met someone else.”

Clary huffs. “It would serve you right, you great big loser. I told you that I’m not going to wait forever.”

“You don’t have to wait at all,” Izzy says against her cloud of hair.

Clary threads her fingers through Izzy’s where they rest against her stomach. “Why won’t you let me in?” Clary asks, voice soft, subdued.

So she’s noticed. Izzy wasn’t sure she did, wasn’t even sure herself until last night.

“What would you do if I did?” Izzy asks finally. She’s not sure what she wants to hear, but she knows what she doesn’t. Too much of her life is like this, wanting but not quite knowing quite how to _have_. Knowledge without experience. The heavy physical ache of want without any rules to guide her, just an endless night rushing by and Izzy helplessly watching it pass.

Clary hums. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Izzy's heart speeds up. 

Izzy leans over Clary, pushes the coppery red strands of hair out of her way and kisses her neck, the pale stretch of skin right next to the freckle that she loves, right next to Clary’s pulse, racing fast enough to rival her own. Oh—she’s just as nervous as Izzy.

Something about that knowledge makes her unfathomably tender. “Okay,” Izzy says softly. “Okay.”

So Izzy does, she lets Clary into the tired, bruised, and scooped out places inside her, or the closest she can come right now. She’s working on those last few inches, and they're going to take a while.

“You’re so stupid, Iz,” Clary sighs, tired and fond. She rolls over, pulls her close and kisses her. Izzy probably smells disgusting and tastes worse, but she opens to her, lets her body go loose and pliant, finally goes where Clary wants her. Maybe in this, to get where she wanted to be, all she ever needed to do was to let go. 

Clary’s mouth against hers is familiar and yet somehow excitingly new with this added weight. Despite it, Izzy feels as light as a feather and shockingly free. Magnus was right – It won’t last, nothing ever does, but for now, with Clary’s arms around her, her head tilted against her shoulder, Izzy feels a small slice of peace. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. Maybe that’s all happiness really is, these small stolen moments of peace between the turmoil of living. It’s enough to keep her afloat, she thinks, at least for a little while.

The rest? She’ll deal with it as it comes. It’s all that she can do.

“I might be in love with you,” Izzy confesses reluctantly. It still doesn't feel great to admit, but she guesses it'll get easier with time. Most things do, both good and bad.

“You don’t have to say it in such an asshole-ish tone,” Clary says, but she sounds pleased.

“Okay,” Izzy relents, “I’m definitely in love with you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clary says. “I was just waiting for you to figure it out.”


End file.
